


Confront Me

by Sar_Kalu



Series: all the Erin Gilbert angst [3]
Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Ghostbusters - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, I'm kidding, I've stuck it as mature because there are some not cool things mentioned and or discussed, Okay guys buckle the fuck up for a mega angst ride, angsty af, author hopes you cry because that means its half decent written, author is thirsty for reviews, author works through own issues through fic writing, biphobia tw, but yeah, i feel like enjoy is a crass way to put it, i mean its not explicit but its definitely mentioned, i'm not a complete asshole, its mostly just out and out biphobia, lol, potential homophobia tw, read? enjoy? let me know what you think, so we have trigger warnings for, still i hope you enjoy?, suicide TW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 17:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10284539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: Part Three of "all the Erin Gilbert angst" - wherein Erin's Mother comes to dinner and is a cunt.





	

Erin hunches down in her seat at the kitchen table. It’s three ‘o’clock in the afternoon and her Mother is sitting - prim, proper, rigid – across from her. Beside her Mother sits Abby, the dark haired woman is chattering away about ghosts and proton guns and this business they’ve all created out of nothing, and Abby is clueless about Erin’s Mother’s disapproval. Erin though, Erin can feel it radiating out of the elderly woman in hot angry waves, as though she is an open flame and Erin’s a child standing too close and the heat feels like its cracking her skin, drying her out, and she’s going to be left an empty husk of herself.

 

Neither Gilbert has spoken in well over half an hour and Erin is wondering how Abby can be so unobservant to miss the brewing animosity between them. Erin knows that there is only so long her Mother can be in her presence before the older woman starts snarking about her faults. It’s nothing unusual, Erin’s well used to it by now; but it hurts, still. After all this time, it still hurts. No matter how much she tries to convince herself otherwise.

 

The minutes drag on, time slipping by and marked only by the ticking of the clock that Patty hung up above the door in an attempt to help Kevin remember that his lunch break was only a half hour long. Erin’s Mother shifts in her seat, slightly and carefully, rearranging herself from the left to the right and tilting her head, just so, and to Abby and to all the world it would look like Erin’s Mother is vastly interested in everything Abby is prattling on about. She isn’t. Erin can see that her Mother is being polite only. She isn’t engaged and Erin is terrified to know what her Mother is truly thinking.

 

As Abby takes a breath and reaches for her cup of tea, Erin’s Mother finally meets Abby’s eyes and smiles, and to Erin the expression looks brittle and cruel. “It sounds like you have been very busy, Abigail,” Erin’s Mother’s words are delicate like fine china and settle in the air between the three of them. Erin’s eyes close as she brings her teacup up to her mouth and she takes a long sip, it’s tepid and bitter just like her Mother’s personality; Erin cannot help the soft snort at the thought.

 

Erin reopens her eyes and smiles tightly when she notices how her Mother and Abby are looking at her. “Apologies,” she says lightly, as though she hasn’t potentially just gravely offended both women she’s taking tea with. “I thought of something funny while I was distracted,” and Erin hates how formal she is, but it’s a survival mechanism and she’s not stupid enough to slip into her more relaxed way of talking in front of her Mother.

 

Abby rolls her eyes, dismissive of Erin’s supposed antics, and turns to Erin’s Mother and smiles widely, genuinely pleased to accept what she thinks is a compliment. “Thank you, Mrs. Gilbert, we certainly try,” and Erin feels like shouting at Abby that her Mother is mocking her, that her Mother could care less about Abby and the Ghostbusters; but she doesn’t. Instead she takes another sip of her tea and bitterly wishes it was coffee.

 

Erin’s Mother smiles gently and genially, and Erin tries to refrain from rolling her eyes to the point where the aborted motion is almost pain. “You’re very welcome, dear,” Erin’s Mother says to Abby and she turns to Erin finally. Her hands are folded in her lap and in her neatly pressed blouse and skirt; Erin’s Mother looks like the perfect representation of a 1950’s housewife. Except, Erin’s Mother had been _born_ in the 1950’s and Erin wonders why her Mother would dress in a way that her younger-self would probably be horrified by.

 

Erin knows the story of her parents meeting, how it had been at college, at a feminist rally in the early 1970’s and how she had come along a few years later. How her Mother had been a staunch activist for women’s rights and how her Father had supported everything she did – right up until they got married and settled down and bought a house in the suburbs and brought tiny Erin Gilbert out into the world along with all their expectations for her life and person. Erin wonders how her Mother can sit there and parrot on about “her day” when she never really had a day at all. Erin’s Mother day had been wasted in a relationship with a stereotypical straight, white man who worked a stereotypical office job and brought home the bare minimum for his family to live off.

 

They had been a Middle class family, in both wealth and circumstance; but her Father had lived as though they were Upper class. Spending his single weekly pay check on a brand new television unit every three years, buying a personal computer the minute they were available to the public, and leaving her Mother to scrape together enough money each month for rent and bills. Erin remembers how her Mother had borrowed money more than a few times from her grandparents and her friends; and the humiliation that inspired in the older woman, her face red with shame but her chin lifted in pride all the same. Erin can remember listening to their screaming matches every week as they argued about money and the terror of the cold night outside and “ _for God’s sake, Jonathan, you’re going to starve us to death one of these days_ ”.

 

Erin sits there in her jeans and sweatshirt, and wonders when her Mother is going to comment on her clothing choices. When she is going to ask why Erin’s hair is messy and choppy because she hasn’t been to the hairdressers in months to get it styled properly. When her Mother is going to side eye her messy desk and the overflowing of papers on its surface and the way the whiteboards nailed to the wall behind her desk are covered in a myriad of scrawled equations in different colours and how the board isn’t white so much as it’s grey and streaked with smudged ink from where her hands had rubbed out mistakes because she was busy and even though she had an eraser, sometimes she forgets to use it.

 

“And what have you been up to Erin?” The question is innocent, light and airy, but Erin cannot help the way her shoulders roll in and she hunches in deeper to her chair and the way her head ducks down, avoiding eye contact. “Sit up straight, dear, I raised you better than that,” and Erin’s reaction is immediate. Her shoulders snap up straight and her spine flattens against the hard back of the chair. Erin can feel the way her shoulder blades press against the chair back and the way the natural curve of her back disappears until she feels like she had a steel rod in place of a muscle and bone spine.

 

“Not much,” Erin evades the question with ease of practice, shrugging slightly despite the way her Mother’s lips thin in disapproval of the gesture and Erin can feel her chest beginning to restrict, until she’s breathing shallow and light and her head is swimming from over-oxygenation. “I wrote a few papers this week and I’ve been working with Abby a lot, revising our latest book.”

 

Erin’s Mother smiles, “ah yes, _Ghosts of our Past_ , correct?”

 

Erin sinks into her chair and feels ice sweep her body and suddenly she’s blinking back tears and she’s not sure why. “Yes,” she whispers quietly as she tries to make her wooden lips move enough to let sound escape.

 

“Pardon?” The question is pointed and Erin knows that her Mother dislikes having to strain her ears. Erin’s Mother greatly disapproves of mumbling and slang, much preferring her daughter to be articulate with well-enunciated diction. A display that proves that Erin has risen above her middle class roots and could well one day make a small fortune in academia or marry into a wealthy family and thus take care of both her parents in their old age. It never happened and will likely never happen, academia does not pay as well as it once used to, and for all their new-found fame, the Ghostbusters are still a joke in some public spheres. Some of Erin’s first memories are of her much younger-self being told to look it up in the dictionary/thesaurus/encyclopaedia. Erin’s Mother was very hands-off in her education, preferring that Erin took responsibility in her own learning. To inspire and foster Erin's independence, was the ostensible reason; but all it did was teach Erin that she could never ask for help without being told to fix the problem on her own. 

 

Erin clears her throat as she wonders if all this is why she has so much trouble letting people help her. It wouldn’t be that surprising, to be perfectly honest; and it would certainly explain a lot. “Yes,” she says the word stronger and clearer, “you are correct,” she quickly adds to clarify just what she is agreeing to. Which was sometimes necessary. Her Father had been a businessman who disliked ambiguity. Something her Mother had picked up over the long years of her marriage with the flaky-yet-exacting man.

 

Erin’s Mother nods her head as though she understands Erin and Erin’s work, as though she cares enough to keep up with her daughter. Erin often wonders why she bothers; only to flinch at the thought because she knows her Mother loves her. Of course she does, she’s her Mother, but sometimes, Erin thinks that love isn’t quite enough. Love doesn’t solve everything and often disguises the real problems hidden underneath. Erin doesn’t really believe in love, for all that she cherishes it.

 

Erin drains the last of her cup of tea and slowly stands, unfolding her long frame like an umbrella being extended. “Excuse me,” she says softly after depositing her newly rinsed cup on the drying rack, “I have to get back to work, Holtz is expecting a set of new equations tomorrow.” The explanation is more for her Mother’s benefit, because Erin could never do anything without explaining herself, her motives, and her actions to the older woman. Erin thinks it was some kind of control thing, but she cannot know for sure. It’s not something she’s ever asked before, nor does she have any intention of broaching the issue. It’s just _one of those things_.

 

Abby doesn’t say a word but there is a silent disapproval there in what she doesn’t say. Erin often wonders if she’s being hypersensitive before dismissing it. Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t; in any case, it’s not as though she can really change it. Her Mother quietly bids her farewell with the tone of a woman being scorned. Erin knows her Mother thinks she isn’t really working, that she’s avoiding her; and in truth, her Mother is partially correct. Erin both loves and loathes spending time with her. It’s stressful.

 

As Erin stands at her desk in the second-floor lab, she shifts in discomfort at the silence that settles around her like a cloak. Aside from the faint hisses that the containment units let out and the flashing of the bright yellow safety light that Patty had demanded Holtzmann install on top of their main containment unit (where the really dangerous ghosts were kept), nothing stirs at all. It was oppressive here without Holtz’s constant banging and clattering as she makes whatever insane device she is working on at the time. Erin even misses the 80’s power ballads that Holtzmann is addicted to; most of which make her ears ache after a while and they loop on repeat for days in the recesses of her mind, which drives Erin mad and she kind of hates it, but it's _Holtz_ and she loves Jillian too much to change her.

 

Erin flips the desk lamp on and illuminates her desk in yellow light, smiling as this mornings work is easily discernable in between the various additions that Holtz must have added before ducking out to lunch an hour ago. Flicking through the sheafs of paper, Erin arrays the work out for ease of reference as she stands in front of the trio of floor to ceiling black boards Holtz had made her. They are her prized possessions and something she has always secretly wanted. After all, nothing screams genius, workaholic professor like floor to ceiling blackboards filled with incomprehensible-but-neat equations.

 

Erin has always prized her work above everything else, she is incredibly proud to be a scientist and the notion of being a genius professor with an excellent work ethic is something she holds near and dear to her heart. To be a teacher, a lecturer, a guide, a mentor: is something she has wanted since her second year at university and she discovered just how amazing it was to teach people and see their eyes light up with comprehension.

 

That Holtzmann had somehow _known_ all of this, despite only knowing Erin for eight months, only made Erin’s fondness for the quirky engineer even more unassailable. Erin actually considered that fondness to be problematic, even after the events yesterday. For all that she feels comfortable in loving Jillian, it... is disturbing just how quickly it has come about; but the other woman is too brilliant, too incredible, too amazing to inspire anything less than love in Erin. It makes her heart ache to think about, but at the same time, there is an odd kind of confidence there too. Erin doesn't really trust non-platonic love, but she's learning too; and Holtzmann is by far the kindest teacher she's ever had.

 

Erin slips into a kind of non-state, where she allows her mind to roam free as she transcribes her work from paper to blackboard, her body twisting and turning in some kind of demented academic dance, swaying more than stepping. In her work, Erin loses track of time as she smiles and revels in the chance to stretch her mind. The practicality of theory has always been her forte. Reading, discovering, and learning was all well and good, but the chance to discuss or to write her ideas out until they transformed from the ephemeral to reality is vastly more satisfying. Struggling to find the perfect equation to describe the words and thoughts in her mind is like a writer trying to distil all their words into the perfect sentence or stanza. Or, so Erin thinks. 

 

Erin, at the end of it all, steps backwards and surveys her work with a satisfied smile. Her eyes blinking slowly through the cloud of white chalk dust that her manic transcribing has kicked up and her jeans are clouded with white finger and hand prints and Erin knows she has white dust sifted through her dark hair as well. Despite all of this, Erin feels content to be standing there, surveying the equations and words on the board with a kind of calm solidity in knowing that this was only the beginning and that a long frustrating road awaits her as she tries to refine these ideas into more than the clunky basics before her. The world is elegant and graceful and Erin often tries to show and capture this through her work. It was never enough to simply be, because life was often more-than-simple; and to Erin, physics should always try to reflect that complexity of being.

 

“Erin Gilbert,” Holtz’s voice says from behind her, awed and amazed, “you are an artist.”

 

Erin turns around, noticing the way the sky is dark outside and how Holtz is standing in front of her, blue eyes wide as she takes in the equations that take up the lower halves of the blackboards she had installed for the older woman. “Jillian,” Erin grins in delight at the sight of her girlfriend, “I thought you were out with Patty?”

 

Jillian hums faintly, not really paying attention because she’s staring at Erin work with the eyes of someone who more than understands what Erin’s describing and she can feel her mind ticking over already, ideas spawning like rabbits in the springtime. “Amazing,” she breathes, “I can’t wait to see the finished product,” she adds, because she knows Erin and she’s been standing there for close to ten minutes watching her girlfriend work and she knows Erin will want to spend tomorrow morning refining everything she’s just done because Erin is a perfectionist and even if Holtz has everything she needs right here, she will respect Erin’s need to do things well.

 

Erin blushes faintly and ducks her head, sidling up to Jillian and winding her arms around the younger woman’s neck, Erin presses a kiss to Jillian’s cheek, thanking her softly. Jillian tilts her head up just enough to meet Erin gaze and arches up onto her toes to press her own kiss to Erin’s lips.

 

“Dinners waiting downstairs,” Jillian tells her girlfriend gently, not really wanting to move because Erin’s here in her arms and that’s very much where she prefers Erin to be.

 

Erin smiles as she steps backwards and gestures Jillian to lead the way, her eyes dipping low enough to check out Jillian’s ass in those loose fisherman’s pants and the way her crop top rode high enough that more than a sliver of skin was visible between the waistband of her pants and the edge of her shirt. Erin’s eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment as she envisages sliding her hands along the wealth of smooth skin beneath Jillian’s clothes and the way Jillian’s mouth would open and a soft sigh might escape.

 

Erin’s smile, when Jillian takes her hand at the bottom of the stairs and leads her into the kitchen where everyone is waiting, is soft and radiant. Erin feels confident and assured in Jillian’s presence and it showed, for all that their relationship is new and fragile. In the moments between the final transcribing of her mornings work and their arrival in the kitchen for dinner, Erin had forgotten all about her Mother’s presence with them. Jillian inspires serenity and calm in a way that Erin hasn’t truly experienced before and while she was _Out_ , Erin’s Mother isn't necessarily the most supportive of people when it came to her daughter’s sexuality. It is very much a “don’t tell at all and I’ll never ask” situation.

 

Which is why Erin drops Jillian’s hand like it was a red-hot iron the moment she spots her Mother; but the damage is done. Nothing is said, but the cold gaze, thinning lips, and raised eyebrows say it all. Jillian turns to Erin in confusion, only to relax slightly as Erin ducks around her to the glasses cabinet, taking down two clean glasses and filing them with water. Everyone else has drinks and while Erin would have liked a glass of wine, she rather suspects that it might be better if she kept her wits about her. Her Mother has a tongue sharper than a razor on her and a passive-agressive wit that will shred even the strongest egos.

 

Erin’s Mother, however, is not to be put off so easily by her daughters coy move. “So,” and she smiles at Jillian in a moderately welcoming manner and Erin is immediately on the defensive back-foot, “how long have you been dating?”

 

Jillian doesn’t know Erin’s Mother, but she’s heard enough to notice the faint lines about the corners of her mouth and eyes, and Jillian wonders if this is homophobia or something else. Whatever it is, Jillian is Out and Proud, she will not back down in this and her words are proud and defiant in the face of uncertainty. “Not long,” she admits cheerfully enough as Abby passes her the egg rolls and Patty nudges a carton of greens towards Jillian pointedly. “It’s still pretty new.”

 

Erin settles in the chair beside Jillian and relaxes as Jillian bumps into her, the feeling of her girlfriend beside her making Erin feel a confident in spite of her Mother’s presence. “New but beautiful,” Erin murmurs, loud enough that the entire table can hear, and Jillian flushes as Erin rounds the comment off with a cheesy, “just like you.”

 

Erin’s Mother rolls her eyes, she’s not a naturally affectionate woman and neither is Erin, but unlike her Mother, Erin is learning to be affectionate with Jillian because the younger woman means more to her than the appearance of appropriateness. “Hmm,” Erin’s Mother vocalises as she genially accepts the carton of noodles from Patty with a polite nod. “Erin didn’t tell me,” and while the words are innocuous, the implication of a lack of pride in their new relationship on Erin’s behalf is loud in the silence. Erin's Mother's subtle words leave Erin reeling, because of course she's proud of Jillian. Of course she loves her. Of course she hasn't told her Mother about her. Erin has no desire to subject Jillian to this at all.

 

Erin’s lips thin in quiet anger but her voice is steady in spite of it. “I didn’t feel the need to tell you,” she replies calmly and Jillian can feel something brewing beneath the surface here, if her darting, nervous eyes are anything to go by. Erin want’s to apologise, but she doesn’t know how, not with her Mother here and she cannot afford to show any kind of weakness. Not right now.

 

“You didn’t feel the need to tell me that you have a lovely girlfriend?” Erin’s Mother’s voice is the perfect balance of sorrow and hurt, and guilt surges in Erin’s chest but she chokes it back. She has nothing to be sorry for. 

 

“She is lovely,” Erin replies as her fingers tighten cruelly around the smooth wood of her chopsticks and her free hand knots in the fabric of her skirt beneath the table. “I love _her_ very much,” and this time, Erin’s gaze collides with her Mother’s and her smile is more cruel than sweet. Implication and subtlety were the weapons of choice in her house growing up, and Erin became the master of words and their inflection at a young age. It makes her cruel at times and is the reason for her preference of blunt explanations, but it was her childhood and teen years. Erin knows how to play this game, she is not a child anymore.

 

Abby shifts on her seat uncomfortably while Patty’s eyes dart between Mother and Daughter uncertainly. _Kids are cruel, man_ , seems to echo in Patty’s mind and for the first time, Patty wonders how much of Erin’s story about her childhood was actually true and how much had been whitewashed so they wouldn’t pity her. How much had Erin hidden from them?

 

Silence reigns but for the soft ticking of the clock above the doorway and the occasional request to pass the noodles/egg rolls/the salad; it’s oppressive but somehow, Jillian gets the feeling that it’s preferable to the alternative. Erin doesn’t feel the quiet; this was what the dinners of her teenage years had been like: quiet but for the clink of cutlery on ceramic, and the occasional request to pass the beans.

 

“So,” her Mother says and here is comes, Erin can feel it, “how long has _this_ ,” ‘this’ being accompanied by the faint flick of the wrists and raised eyebrows of someone implying more than stating, “been going on?”

 

Erin smiles deliberately and Patty is leaning backwards in her seat, obviously seeing where this is going and wanting to flee like the sensible woman she is, “what ‘this’, Mother?” Erin’s asking despite knowing exactly what her Mother is talking about. This. This. This. This, being Jillian. This, being her bisexuality. This, being her refusal to pick a side, as though her sexuality is a war zone and she’s the turncoat traitor that flip switches between straight and gay on a whim. _This_.

 

Erin’s Mother rolls her eyes and thins her lips, “I thought you were straight,” she says calmly in between bites of her Szechuan beef.

 

Erin smirks and sets her chopsticks down and raises an eyebrow, unable to help the disbelieving snort she lets escape. “I came out to you when I was in my twenties, Mother,” she states firmly, “as bisexual, if you’ll remember.”

 

Erin’s Mother rolls her eyes again and waves her hand dismissively, “yes, but I thought that was just a phase. You have only gone out with men, sweetheart, this seems very sudden, don’t you think?”

 

Erin doesn’t dare look at Jillian, because she knows that Jillian doesn’t get that this _isn’t_ homophobia. This isn’t her Mother disapproving of Jillian’s gayness. This isn’t what it looks like, ironically. This is her Mother’s monosexual-normativity prevailing over her daughter’s truth of being multisexual. This isn’t homophobia, this is biphobia. This is discrimination against _Erin_ , not Jillian. But Erin still cannot stomach the thought of looking at Jillian, she can’t stomach the thought of her girlfriends wounded expression.

 

“Way to sound homophobic, Mother,” Erin snaps instantly, unable to help her desperate need to protect Jillian, even from her own Mother. It leaves her open to attack. It's too blunt. Too forward. Erin knows better than this, but Jillian is sitting next to her and Erin can feel the tension running through her slender frame and it's making her feel sick. It's a beating of a drum inside her mind: not Jillian, not Jillian, not Jillian, Not Jillian.

 

Erin’s Mother straightens in indignation, anger lighting her grey gaze and suddenly Erin can see the resemblance between them. The set of her Mother’s jaw, the determination in her eyes; that’s all Erin, and she kind of hates the sight of it. “I am not homophobic, Erin Louise Gilbert!” Erin’s Mother has never looked this offended; she prides herself on her acceptance of other people, an acceptance that ironically doesn’t extend to her daughter, but if questioned would not be tolerated in any way. “How dare you accuse me of such disgusting behaviour! How dare you! How dare! I cannot believe that you would accuse me of that! You know I am all about accepting people! How. dare. you. young lady!”

 

Erin shrugs, sneaking a glance at Holtzmann who is blinking in surprise at the vehement denial, and she fiddles with a chopstick near her empty water glass and hopes that the bluster of her Mother’s anger will disappear soon.

 

“If anything, your hopscotching between straight and gay is homophobic,” Erin’s Mother declares, not for the first time and Erin feels the weight of her Mother’s words hit her like a punch to the gut. She feels sick and she kind of wants to vomit. “What will your children think,” Erin’s Mother repeats her old and preferred arguments in a almost shrill voice, projecting her arguments over the heads of Erin’s friends and colleagues, “with you being so indecisive in the gender of your relations!”

 

Jillian seems to understand everything now and her hand is tightly clenched in Erin’s own beneath the table. Erin’s shaking and furious but still she remains silent, unwilling to speak the horrible words she keeps pent up inside. Instead, she merely replies with, “I don’t want children, Mother.”

 

Erin’s Mother snort in dismissal at Erin’s words, “Of course you do, dear, you’re being ridiculous. You’ll have children and you’ll love them and raise them like I loved and raised you,” and Erin felts an equal measure of dismay and disbelief rise like fire in her chest and it’s so, so hard to bite back the shouts of denial and hatred that build up like stacks of bricks behind her teeth.

 

Erin’s refusal to reply stutters the conversation in its tracks and Jillian’s hand is holding Erin’s so tight that it’s painful but Erin doesn’t say a word, preferring to reman silent because this is keeping Jillian silent and that’s more important than the relief that Jillian loosening her grip would bring. Besides, the pain is helping her control the sudden desire to cry that she's affected with. She would be accused of emotional manipulation if she did. Of derailing a "conversation"; because God forbid that she express her rage, her sorrow, her pain in any manner that wasn't logical words and calm ideas. How dare she, indeed.

 

Abby is disbelieving of everything she has just heard, Erin can see it in her face and in her eyes and Erin knows, _she just knows_ , that Abby is going to be foolish and say something. Except, Patty must have kicked her under the table because Abby’s open mouth closes and the shorter physicist remains silent and confused, shooting looks between the two Gilberts as the last of dinner is polished off and the dishes put away. Abby has never understood that not all homes are good and kind. Abby has never understood that brokenness doesn't always come in the shape of bruises and shattered bones. Sitting at the kitchen table with her girlfriends hand clenched tight within her own, Erin feels broken and tired and helpless and small. 

 

As the evening rolls into night and the time grows later and later, and the polite conversation about the weather and recent scientific discoveries made trails off, Erin’s Mother finally calls a cab and makes her way to her hotel room on the other side of the city. It’s late, edging on to ten, and Erin’s exhausted and sprawled across Jillian, who is sifting her long fingers through Erin’s long, fine, thick hair and gently scratching her nails along Erin’s scalp.

 

Erin sighs and relaxes backwards; truly content for the first time since dinner and able to feel the last vestiges of her discomfort and rage melt away beneath the pads of Jillian’s gentle fingers. “Thank you,” she murmurs quietly into the air between she and Jillian, and the engineer pauses in her movements.

 

“What for?” Jillian asks gently, shifting just enough that their eyes can meet comfortably and Erin’s smile is gentle and fond as she looks up at her girlfriend.

 

“For being there, for understanding, for being you,” Erin lists everything rapidly and uncertainly, because it’s more than Jillian being there, it’s more than her understanding, it’s more than just Jillian herself. It’s all of these things and more. It’s Jillian not getting angry and exploding at her Mother, even though Jillian had the right. It’s Jillian holding her hand in silent support and knowing that was what Erin needed at that moment. It was Jillian, all of Jillian and all that Jillian did; and Erin loves her for it.

 

Abby collapses on the couch opposite them and sighs heavily and disbelievingly. “Why did you never tell me about that, Erin?” Abby asks in consternation and Erin cannot help the minute flinch at that.

 

“I did tell you,” Erin says softly, but it’s loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room.

 

Abby shakes her head, sprawling further into the couch, and waves a hand almost negligently. “Erin, you never-”

 

Erin sat up sharply, knocking Holtzmann’s hands away, her hands gripping the edge of the couch and her feet planted flat on the floor as she glares at Abby and bites back the harsher words she wants to let rip. “Abby,” she cuts the other woman off, “I did tell you. You didn’t listen. Ever.”

 

Abby’s mouth opens and closes before she stops and eyes Erin carefully. Everything about her long time friend screams rage and betrayal and Abby might not be the greatest at social cues but she understands that this is thin ice she’s stepping on and somehow, Abby think’s she’s seen this expression before. It hits her like a lightning bolt; this was what Erin had looked like before she’d left that day. Before she’d never turned up to the TV show and left Abby hanging by herself and feeling like an idiot.

 

How much had Abby missed? How much had Abby not caught because she was unable to see Mrs. Gilbert as anything but a sweet older woman? A Mom. Erin had never, not once in the time Abby had known her, called Mrs. Gilbert anything but Mother. Which was awfully formal, come to think of it. Mother’s are the bad characters in books and fairy-tales, used by princes and princesses to denote a female character they’re related to but not close to. Mom’s are sweet and smell nice. The love you and care for you and support you.

 

“Erin, what haven’t I listened to?” And Abby is asking now with the intention to listen, to hear what Erin says, to be a better friend because somehow, she gets the feeling that she hasn’t been necessarily the greatest friend. She supported Erin, true, and she loves her; but there’s more to friendship than supporting and loving someone, and Abby wonders if she did the best she could in listening to Erin’s problems and worries. Somehow she suspects she hasn’t, and while she could shrug it off and say she was young, Abby doesn’t believe in shirking responsibilities like that.

 

So Erin talks. She doesn’t scream and cry and howl like she had with Holtz; because she doesn’t feel as safe with Abby as she does with Jillian. Jillian, who sits beside her, rubbing a soothing thumb over her knuckles and holds her hand tightly. Jillian, who encourages her to speak and holds up a hand to Abby, when Abby wants to speak. Jillian, Jillian, Jillian. Erin clings to the younger woman tightly and aches for her, wants to know Jillian’s problems and listen to her woes, but right now, Erin needs to be selfish and talk about herself. To explain to Abby that she’s sorry for running, but it was either run or do something permanently foolish.

 

It hadn’t been a decision she had made easily, Erin explains, shaking like a leaf on the couch with Abby sitting across from her and Jillian draped over her and hugging her tight and even Patty is listening; because Erin’s the quiet, broken one. The one with no self-esteem, the one who resorts to violence, the one who’s determined and furious and always the first off the bat when it comes to busting. Erin with the most powerful gun, Erin the one with slight stammer after years of holding her tongue, Erin the one who is both a leader and a follower and who is trusted to navigate the bullshit political arena that the Mayor occasionally tosses them into without thought.

 

And this, right here, right now, is Erin baring herself in a way that’s more vulnerable than stripping off her clothes. This is Erin letting three people in to the very darkest, ugliest places of her soul, and by her side is Jillian Holtzmann, holding her together as she slowly, eventually, dissolves into hacking, choking, violent sobs that drives the other two women across the room and into her side.

 

Abby falls to her knees at the side of the couch, winding tight arms around Erin’s waist and pulls the tall, gangly woman into a tight hug. Patty is there too, wrapping her longer, stronger arms around the whole group, and Erin feels like this is what it was always supposed to be like. This was what yesterday should have been like, when she had whispered her deepest, darkest secrets into the narrow spaces between her and Holtzmann; and somehow she gets the feeling that Jillian feels this too, because her arms are tight and solid around Erin’s shoulders, and Jillian’s face and shoulders are wet with both Erin’s and her tears.

 

This, Erin realises with deep certainty, is what it means to be a family. This is support, this is trust, this is caring. This is them being there for each other and Erin mutters her gratitude over and over again and one by one the others soothe Erin, assuring her that everything is okay, that it’s alright. To them, Erin is not a fucked up, burden of a mess.

 

She is Erin Gilbert, Ghostbuster, friend, girlfriend, sister, confidant, and above all else, very much loved.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the third and final part of the series, I'm not thinking I'll add to it any time soon. That said, I maaay come back to it, because ideas are always ticking over in my brain and I'm not going to say "never" because I will end up looking foolish eventually. 
> 
> Thank you absolutely everyone who's hit kudos or has gone to the extra effort of leaving me a review. You are, all of you, extremely well appreciated and I cannot thank you enough. You're all utterly amazing. 
> 
> A special thank you to ihaveafeelingitsmichigan, who's encouragement actually got me up off my arse to finish writing this. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this, thank you for reading my fic. I hope it was decent and brought you (dubious?) joy. 
> 
> Until next time, whenever that may be, kindest regards and well wishes to you.  
> Xan


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